At the end of last week, Chana was released from the hospital after another suicide attempt, and she wasn’t eligible for admission to another facility. We found out about a “bayit meyazen,” and we decided to check it out.
Chana was very excited about the idea. It seemed like it could be a good place for her to try. It was an inpatient, private-pay facility for people struggling with addiction and related mental health issues. At this point, her cutting was considered an addiction (one of the hospital doctors had told us it was the worst case he had ever seen), and this place had an excellent reputation for treating severe addictions.
So, we drove her down.
It was a beautiful, large house near the beach. About thirty residents lived there, with a large staff. We were given a tour. There was a firm, structured schedule that everyone was expected to follow – set wake-up times, enforced lights out, and hourly programming. Participation wasn’t optional.
Chana would be the youngest resident by far. Most were in their late twenties to mid-thirties. That concerned me, but the director didn’t seem worried.
We had a lengthy intake interview. There happened to be a bed available immediately, and Chana was welcome to start right away.
We agreed.
So, we took her home, she packed, and then I turned around and drove her back – another hour each way.
When I brought her back, I was told to give her a quick hug and leave. So once again, I hugged her, turned, and walked away.
With a mix of relief and fear, I got into my car and drove home. I had already been driving for over four hours, and I still had the full trip back. I was exhausted. I felt like crying.
Our life took on a new rhythm.
Chana was no longer home. She was largely unreachable, and we were only allowed to visit once a week. She would sometimes call or message us once a day, but that didn’t always happen. And strangely, I didn’t really mind.
She was away. She was safe. And for the moment, she wasn’t my immediate responsibility.
I had kids at home. One getting married. Another preparing for his bar mitzvah. These were big things, and they deserved my attention.
Friday was visiting day.
Even that followed a strict schedule: 1:30-4:00. If you arrived early, you waited outside. At 3:50, they told everyone to wrap up, and at 4:00 you were escorted out.
I found that structure comforting. The lack of ambiguity felt containing. The boundaries helped me relax because I knew exactly when it would end.
Not that the visits were easy.
I often felt like I was doing something wrong no matter what I did. If I brought my phone and checked it even once, I was “always on my phone.” If I didn’t bring it and just sat with her, I was “too overbearing.”
I tried bringing a game. She agreed – but the game was “stupid.” Another time, I brought a guitar after one of the residents suggested it for my son. Everyone else loved it. Chana was furious.
During many visits, she barely spoke to me. She would answer questions, but we never really had a conversation.
I would leave exhausted and upset.
Logistically, Fridays were also difficult. I had to finish Shabbos prep much earlier, and there wasn’t much I could leave for later. Just the drive itself could take over an hour each way with traffic.
Eventually, I stopped going every week.
It was too much – emotionally and practically. And if she wasn’t happy I was there, I started asking myself why was I pushing so hard.
The first week I didn’t go, I felt guilty.
But it had been a long week, and I was behind. Leaving for the entire afternoon didn’t make sense. My husband encouraged me to stay home.
When they left, I felt almost giddy.
The whole apartment to myself. It felt luxurious.
Later that afternoon, my daughter called me.
She said she missed me and was looking forward to seeing me next week.
I told her I missed her too.
But inside, something shifted.
I realized I didn’t have to run every time I was expected to. I didn’t have to bend myself around her moods. If it worked for me, I would go. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t.
And I noticed something else.
When I let go of the guilt, her response changed too.
If I didn’t carry guilt, there was nothing for her to push against.
Her time in this facility was unlike anything I had seen before.
There were real consequences for breaking rules. Privileges had to be earned. Nothing was given automatically.
At one point, she lost her phone for two weeks. We weren’t allowed to visit. We received a single call informing us of the restriction, and that was it.
Another time, she lost a planned Shabbos home visit.
I could see the impact.
For the first time in a long time, she was being forced to face the consequences of her choices.
Eventually, I was invited to a joint therapy session.
I was nervous, but also hopeful. I thought we would finally talk about everything – what had happened, why it had happened, my role, how we could repair things and move forward.
We sat in the therapist’s office – the three of us.
She asked me what I thought of everything.
I started crying.
I spoke about my sadness and my guilt. She told me I was not responsible for Chana. I told her that no one reaches this point without experiencing deep pain. Yes, Chana was responsible for her choices – but those choices didn’t happen in a vacuum.
I wanted to understand. To talk. To repair.
The therapist stopped me.
Chana said she didn’t know if she would ever want to talk about it. She just wanted us to move forward.
I sat there silently.
Then Chana said something I never expected to hear.
“I’m starting to realize how much pain I’ve caused you, Abba, and everyone else. I’m taking responsibility for that.”
That moment shifted something in me.
It gave me a kind of freedom I hadn’t realized I needed. A release from the weight I had been carrying.
I felt the tension leave my body almost immediately.
About a month later, it was the Shabbos aufruf and our son’s bar mitzvah.
The week leading up to it had been intense – shopping, cooking, organizing, preparing for everything.
Friday morning arrived full of energy and pressure. There was still so much to do.
But it was also Friday.
Visiting day.
I was trying to get everything done before my husband would want to leave. I wasn’t managing. I needed the car. I needed his help.
He wanted to go.
I said no.
He pushed back. He felt it was important.
But I told him we had other children. Children who deserved both of us fully present. This was their simcha. Our simcha.
I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t reactive.
I was taking a stand.
For myself. For them. And in a way, for Chana too.
She needed to see that she wasn’t the only one in the family. That others mattered as well.
She wasn’t happy.
But she handled it better than I expected.
So, when Shabbos came in, we were all there.
Together.
On Shabbos morning, I stood by the mechitzah watching our boys get their aliyahs.
I cried.
Not just for them.
But for the empty space next to me, where Chana should have been.
I stood there with our other daughter.
And for now, that would have to be enough.
The author has started a website and online support for parents who are going on similar journeys, she can be reached at parentsbyachad@gmail.com.